Denver was still buzzing about what had happened out there several nights earlier. The official theory was that rustlers had raided the ranch. Most of the members of McKinney’s crew who had survived had taken off for greener pastures since he was no longer alive to pay them. Conrad had a pretty good idea they had run off most of the Double Star stock in the process, figuring that at least they would get something out of the deal that way. The few who were still there weren’t saying much. None of them wanted to implicate themselves in McKinney’s murderous schemes.
The presence of Rose Sullivan’s body was a mystery. Most folks figured she was McKinney’s ladyfriend who’d had the bad luck to be at the ranch when it was attacked.
Nothing tied Conrad, Arturo, or Masterson to the incident, and they were going to leave it that way. Ellery Hudson knew the truth, of course, but the lawyer wouldn’t say anything. Conrad was his client, after all, so he was honor bound to keep silent.
As Conrad climbed up to the buckboard seat beside Arturo, Masterson asked, “You’re still heading for San Francisco?”
Conrad nodded. “With stops to search along the way. There’s still no proof Pamela took the kids with her all the way to the coast. She left here with them, but that’s all we know.”
“There’s a lot of country between here and there,” Masterson mused. “I could come along and help you look.”
Conrad smiled and shook his head. “You’ve got a wife and a good life here, Bat. You don’t need to give that up. Besides, you said you wanted to try your hand at journalism. Maybe someday you’ll write about what happened.”
Masterson laughed. “I don’t think so. I believe we’ll just let this little scrape go unreported. What would be the point in it?”
“That’s true.” A wistful look came over Conrad’s face. “Nothing was really settled, was it? I still didn’t find my children.”
“It’s only a matter of time, my friend, only a matter of time.”
Conrad and Arturo lifted hands in farewell, and Conrad got the team moving. The buckboard rolled away, leaving Bat Masterson behind them.
“He’s right, you know,” Arturo said. “You’ll find them. Little Frank and Vivian. They’re out there somewhere, and they may not know it, but they’re just waiting for their father to find them.”
Conrad smiled. The hopeful words comforted him.
But he thought about everything Pamela Tarleton had had waiting for him so far, every bit of treachery and danger, and dark shadows shifted in his eyes.
From bestselling authors William W. Johnstone and
J. A. Johnstone comes a blazing new saga of the
MacCallisters. One family, forging a destiny.
One legacy, sworn to justice. One name,
branded in the heart of America . . .
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MACCALLISTER: THE EAGLES LEGACY
The Scottish Highlands, 1885. Two men, brandishing knives, attack a young woman outside a pub. Duff MacCallister steps in and saves her—killing one of the assailants. Big mistake. The attacker was the sheriff’s son, and now MacCallister is marked for death. His only hope: America. In the sprawling land of dreams, Duff hopes to start a new life with his American cousins. Unfortunately, the sheriff’s deputies are tracking him down—with nine of the deadliest cutthroats money can buy. Blazing a trail of blood and bullets all the way to the Rockies, Duff has to kill his enemies one by one—or die trying. But, Duff is not alone. He has a new ally by his side. A living legend of frontier justice. The gunslinger known as Falcon MacCallister . . .
MACCALLISTER: THE EAGLES LEGACY
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Chapter 1
Scotland: Dunoon in Argyllshire
The White Horse Pub in Dunoon had an island bar, Jacobean-style ceiling, beautiful stained glass windows and etched mirrors. Despite its elegant décor and clientele of nobles, it was primarily a place for drinking and most who came behaved with decorum, enjoying the ambiance and convivial conversation with friends. But some, like Alexander, Donald, and Roderick Somerled, sons of Angus Somerled, Lord High Sheriff of Argyllshire regarded their station in life not one of seemliness, but one of privilege. They drank too much, considered all others to be beneath them, and behaved with little restraint.
Duff MacCallister, a tall man with golden hair, wide shoulders and muscular arms was sitting on a stool at the opposite end of the bar from the Somerleds. That wasn’t by accident; there was a long-standing feud between the MacCallister and Somerled clans, going back to the time of Robert the Bruce. Although the killing of each other had stopped a hundred years ago, their dislike of each other continued.
Ian McGregor, owner of the tavern, was wiping glasses behind the bar and he stepped over to speak to MacCallister. “Duff, m’lad, I was in the cemetery the other day and I saw marked on the tombstone of one of the graves, HERE LIES GEOFFREY SOMERLED AN HONEST MAN. So this, I’ll be askin’ ye. Think ye now that there may be two bodies lyin’ in the same coffin—Geoffrey and an honest man?”
Duff MacCallister threw back his head and laughed out loud. He was wearing a kilt and he slapped his bare knee in glee. McGregor’s daughter, Skye, a buxom lass with long red hair, flashing blue eyes, and a friendly smile had been filling three mugs with ale as her father told the joke. She joined in the laughter.
Duff and Skye were soon to be married, and their banns were already posted on the church door. Most of the customers of the White Horse Pub appreciated Skye’s easy humor and friendly ways and treated her with respect due a woman. But some, like the Sheriff’s three sons, treated her with ill concealed contempt.
“Bargirl!” Donald shouted. “More ale!”
“You know her name, Somerled,” Duff said. “And it isn’t Bargirl.”
“’Tis a bargirl she is and her services we’re needin’.”
“I’ll not be but a moment, Mr. Somerled,” Skye replied. She had just put the three mugs on a carrying tray. “I’ve other customers to tend to now.”
“You’re carrying three mugs, there be but three of us,” Donald said. “Serve us first. You can get more ale for them.”
“I’ll not be but a moment, sir,” Skye replied.
Donald was carrying a shillelagh, and he banged it so loudly on the bar that it startled Skye, and she dropped her tray.
“What a clumsy trollop ye be!” Donald said. “If you had brought the ale here, as I asked, this no’ woulda happened.”
“I told you sir, I had other customers.”
“Your other customers can wait. Be ye daft as well as clumsy? Do ye know who I am?”
“Donald Somerled, that is my fiancée you are talking to and if you speak harshly to her again, I will pull your tongue out of your mouth and hand it to you,” Duff said, barely controlling his voice, so intense was his anger.
“We’ll be seeing who is handing who their tongue,” Donald said, hitting his open hand with his shillelagh.
Duff put his mug on the bar, then stepped away to face Donald. “I’m at your service.”
With a defiant yell Donald charged Duff, not with his fists, but with the raised shillelagh. Duff grabbed the same barstool he had been sitting on, and raised it over his head to block the downward swing of the club. The clack of wood crashing against wood filled the entire pub with a crack almost as loud as a gunshot. The noise got the attention of everyone in the bar and all conversation stopped as they turned to watch the confrontation between a MacCallister and a Somerled.
Donald raised his staff for a second try, but as he held his club aloft MacCallister turned the stool around and slammed the seat into Donald’s chest so hard that he let out a loud whoosh as he fell to the floor with the breath knocked from his body.
“You’ll be paying for that, Duff MacCallister!” Alexander said. As Donald writhed on the floor trying to recover his breath, his older brother charged.
Duff tossed the barstool aside,
then put up his fists to meet Alexander’s charge. He parried a wild, roundhouse right, then countered with a straight left that landed on Alexander’s chin, driving him back. With a yell of anger, the third of the Somerled brothers, Roderick, joined the fray.
Duff backed up against the bar, thus preventing either of them from getting behind him. He sent a whistling blow into Roderick’s nose and felt it break, causing the big man to grab his nose and turn away from the fight. Only Alexander was left, but he was the biggest and the most dangerous of the three. Shaking off the blow to his chin, he raised both fists, then advanced toward Duff.
The two men danced around the barroom floor exchanging blows, or rather, attempted blows. Duff learned early in the fight that he could hit Alexander at will. He was so big and so confident of his strength that he made no attempt to block Duff’s blows, willing to take them in order to get into position to return the punches. He seemed to be taking them with no ill effect.
Duff bobbed and weaved as Alexander tried roundhouse rights, straight punches, and uppercuts, finally connecting with a straight shot that Duff managed to deflect with his left shoulder, thus avoiding a punch to his head. There was so much power in the blow that Duff felt his left arm go numb. He could no longer count on that arm to ward off anymore of the big man’s punches.
Knowing he was going to have to end the fight soon, he bobbed and weaved, watching for an opening. Alexander tried another roundhouse right. Duff managed to pull back, and as Alexander completed his swing Duff pulled the trigger on a straight whistling right driving his fist into Alexander’s Adam’s apple.
He gagged, and put both hands to his throat, allowing Duff to follow with a hard right to the chin. Alexander joined Donald who was getting up but showing no interest in continuing the fight.
For a long moment everyone in the bar looked on with shock and amazement. The Somerleds had a reputation for fighting, something they did frequently. And, because they were the sons of the sheriff, they never had to pay any of the consequences that others of the county had to pay when they engaged in the same activity.
They seldom lost a fight and yet in front of an entire inn full of witnesses, one man, Duff MacCallister, had taken the measure, of not just one of them, but of all three. And at the same time.
“Hear, hear, let’s give a hurrah for Duff MacCallister!” someone shouted, and the bar rang with their huzzahs.
“Now, gentlemen, I believe you called for more ale?” The bartender spoke to the Somerleds as if nothing had happened, as if he were merely responding to their request. Donald and Roderick responded with a scowl, and helped their oldest brother to his feet. Then the three men left.
Everyone in the pub wanted to buy Duff a round, but he had already drunk his limit of two mugs, so he thanked them all, accepting their offers to buy for him when next he came in.
“Skye, would you step outside with me for a moment?” Duff asked.
“Ian, best you keep an eye on them,” one of the customers said. “Else they’ll be outside sparking.”
Skye blushed prettily as the others laughed at the jibe. Duff took her hand in his and walked outside with her.
“Only four more weeks until we are wed,” Skye said when they were outside. I can hardly wait.”
“No need to wait. We can go into Glasgow and be married on the morrow,” Duff suggested.
“Duff MacCallister, sure’n m’ mother has waited my whole life to give me a fine church wedding, and you would deny that to her?”
Duff chuckled. “Don’t worry, Skye. There is no way in the world I would start my married life by getting on the bad side of my mother-in-law. If you want to wait then I will wait with you.”
“What do you mean you will wait with me? What else would you be doing, Duff MacCallister? Would you be finding a willing young lass to wait with you?”
“I don’t know such a willing lass. Do you? For truly, it would be an interesting experiment.”
“Oh, you!” Skye hit Duff on the shoulder Alexander had hit in the fight. He winced.
“Oh! I’m sorry. You just made me mad talking about a willing lass.”
Duff laughed, then pulled Skye to him. “You are the only willing lass I want.”
“I should hope so.”
Duff bent down to kiss her waiting lips.
“I told you Ian! Here they are, sparking in the dark!” a customer shouted. With a good natured laugh, Duff and Skye parted. With a final wave to those who had come outside to see the sparking, Duff started home.
Three Crowns
Duff Tavish MacCallister was the fifth generation to live on and work Three Crowns, the property that was first bestowed by King Charles II upon Sir Falcon MacCallister, Earl of Argyllshire and Laird of Three Crowns. Falcon was Duff’s great great great great grandfather. The title passed on to Falcon’s eldest son, Hugh, but died when Hugh emigrated to America. The land stayed in the family, passing down to Braden MacCallister, who was Duff’s great great great grandfather. The land passed through the succeeding generations so that it now belonged to Duff.
Three Crowns got its name from three crenellated hills that, with imagination, resembled crowns. The family cemetery was atop the middle crown where Sir Falcon MacCallister and all succeeding generations, down to and including Duff’s father, mother, and only brother, lay buried. Duff was the last MacCallister remaining in Scotland.
Duff raised Highland cattle on Three Crowns. He liked Highland cattle, not only because they were a traditional Scottish breed, but also because they required very little in the way of shelter, enjoying conditions in which many other breeds would perish. Cold weather and snow had little effect on them and they seemed to be able to eat anything, getting fat on what other cattle would pass by.
Duff had read of the great cattle ranches in the American West, and how they required many cowboys to ride herd on the huge number of cattle across vast areas. Because the Highland cattle were so easy to manage, and he had only three hundred acres, Duff was able to manage his farm all alone. He did have something in common with the cowboys of the American West, though. He managed his herd from the back of a horse.
He saddled his horse, and as the sun was rising, took a ride around his entire three hundred acres, looking over his cattle. It was a brisk morning and he and his horse blew clouds of vapor into the cool air.
His horse whickered as he rode through his small herd of cattle, distinctive with their long hair and red coloring. The cattle were grazing contentedly, totally unresponsive to the horse and human who had come into their midst.
As Duff rode around his herd, he imagined what it would be like when he had a son to help him run the ranch. He and Skye had spoken often of it.
“What if our first child is a girl?” Skye teased.
“Then we shall make her a princess, and have a son.”
“But if we have only girls?”
“Then I will make them all tomboys, and they will smell of cattle when they go to school.”
“Oh, you!” Skye had hit him playfully.
Duff also planned to build a place for Skye’s parents so they could live on Three Crowns with them. For now, Skye’s father, Ian McGregor, enjoyed a good living running the White Horse Pub, but there would come a time when he would be too old to work. When that time came, Duff promised Skye, Ian could retire in comfort in his own house, right beside them.
As Duff reached the southern end of his property he saw a break in the fence. Ten of his cattle had gone through the break and were now cropping the weeds that grew on the other side of the Donuun Road. Duff slapped his legs against the side of his horse, riding at a quicker pace until he reached the break in the fence.
“Who told you cows you could be over here?” Duff said as he guided his horse through the break and across the road. He began rounding the cattle up and pushing them back across the road toward the break in the fence. It wasn’t a particularly hard thing to do, Highland cattle were known not only for their hardiness, but also for
their intelligence and docile ways. He had just gotten the last cow pushed back through the break, when Rab Malcolm rode up. Malcolm was one of Sheriff Somerled’s deputies.
“Your cows are trespassing on county property,” Malcolm said. “You could be fined for that, you know.”
“My cows were keeping the weeds down along the side of the county road. I should charge the county a fee for that.”
“Making light of the offense does not alter anything. I saw your cows on the road. That is a violation and you could be cited.”
“Cite me or ride away Rab Malcolm,” Duff said. “I’ll not be listening to your prattle.”
Malcolm lifted a billyclub hanging from his belt, and used it as a pointer, pointing it directly at Duff. “With your wild carryin’ on last night, ’tis an enemy you have made of the sheriff. In this county, ’tis not a smart thing to make the sheriff your enemy.”
“Sure ’n the Somerleds and the MacCallisters have been enemies for two hundred years and more. I doubt there is anything I could have done last night that would make it more so.”
“You will see. The sheriff was very angry. I’ve never seen him more angry.”
“Be gone with ye, Malcolm. ’Tis enough of your mouth I’ve listened to today.”
“See that your fence is mended, Duff MacCallister. I will not have commerce along this road disturbed by the likes of your cattle,” Malcolm said, just before he rode away.
Because the cattle frequently pushed through the fence at one point or another around his ranch, keeping them mended was an ongoing operation. Duff had long ago acquired the habit of carrying in his saddle bags the tools and wire he would need to perform the task. Dismounting and taking out his tools and wire, Duff’s horse stood by patiently for the fifteen minutes or so it took to make the repair.
Chapter 2
The Loner: Killer Poker Page 22
